"Really, after the request I was obliged to make to Narcissus last night—you were present, I believe? Is it possible that I failed to make plain my distaste?"
"Ah, but listen! It is no question of distaste, but of a great wrong.
He was not trying to escape; he told you an untruth, to—to save—"
Endymion had picked up a paper-knife, and leaned back, tapping his teeth with it.
"Do you know?" he said, "I suspected something of this kind from the first, though I had no idea you shared the knowledge. Zeally's cleverness struck me as a trifle too—ah—phenomenal for belief. I scented some low intrigue; and Polly's dismissal may indicate my pretty shrewd guess at the culprit."
"But it was not Polly!"
"Eh?"
Endymion sat bolt upright.
"You must not blame Polly. It was I whom M. Raoul came to see that night."
He stared at her, incredulous.
"My dear Dorothea, are you quite insane?"